Gemotions

The flowers were purple, an aggressive, unnatural hue. She saw them first thing in the morning, on the counter. The air had a metallic tang to it. She’d spent too much time alone, that was clear.

She glared at the blossoms. They were a threat. She should be able to enjoy the quiet of her home without this unbidden act of consideration. It grated against her every instinct.

She grabbed the scissors, then, almost without thinking, she began to carve. She carved until the table was slick with juice, petals everywhere, and she knew she'd be left alone, for a while at least.